


The First Case

by Luscinnia, punkypeggy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Pre-Season/Series 01, Serial Killers, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Makes Deductions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 10,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luscinnia/pseuds/Luscinnia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkypeggy/pseuds/punkypeggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Sherlock Holmes started working with Greg Lestrade. A collaborative fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One - by punkypeggy

**Author's Note:**

> You will find the name of each chapter's writer on the title.
> 
> Here we go!

**One - by punkypeggy**

Time is relative. Well, that is obvious. But it is particularly relative when you are not yourself. How many days had passed since the last spiral down? It was hard to remember. Sherlock’s days were nothing but a daze, nothing but confusing, white rapture. Because that was the good thing about cocaine: you do not need to conceptualise or rationalise the rapture. It just IS. It cannot be discussed or argumented.

  
  
It all had started about ten years ago. He was 15, and cocaine was common in Harrow. He had tried a few other drugs before, and he noticed that whatever was inside him calmed down when he was high. Not to mention it didn’t allow him to be bored. Since he was a child, he needed that exaltation, which he often found learning things about the world, the people in general, and some people in particular. For some, he was not normal because he could notice things others could not. For himself, the others were idiots because the truth was right there at hand, and they were too blind to see it or too busy with useless social interaction to grasp it. Of course, being alone most of the time and barely speaking to anyone gave him plenty of room for observation and analysis. He was terribly curious. He needed to know how things worked and why, and that applied to people as well, which gained him a few enemies since a very tender age (one of them being Mycroft, after that incident with his canary).

  
  
But now… it all seemed so far away. Oxford. Cambridge. When was the last time he got out of bed? The last time he ate? Or slept? His whole skin felt itchy and his head was pounding. He tried to scratch his stomach and winced, noticing too late there was a needle still attached to his vein at the end of an empty syringe. Well… things were a bit out of hand. He threw the needle away and undid the belt which was tied to his upper arm. The tender flesh started to bleed. It didn’t matter. He spent a moment running his nails across his torso, leaving red marks on his skin, far too white, far too pale. After a while, he sat up, lit a joint and picked up his violin. It was always about Bach, but something didn’t seem right. Was it the tuning? No. For some reason, there was something wrong with his Stradivarius. Maybe he was just hallucinating, it wouldn’t be the first time. The sound was too mellow. Too sweet. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Scared of the sound [Why was it sounding like that? It wasn’t his violin anymore. It was wrong. Someone changed it whilst he was lying down. There was someone else in the room. Nonsense. The door was locked. Someone behind the bathroom curtain. Someone’s been there forever. The windows were locked. Beneath the bed? Paranoia ], he put it back in its case. But he needed to play. Then he remembered he had his father’s violin. He got up and dragged himself to the closet, where he found a leather box he had opened only once, the day his father died. He touched the strings with his fingertips, remembering. His idiot mother wanted to throw it away. He picked the bow and started to play. That was it. The sound was right. Bach sounded as he was supposed to sound again.

  
  
Slightly calmer, he sat back on the bed. After a while, he felt like he needed the rush again.

  
  
***

  
  
When Sherlock opened his eyes, someone else was there and he wasn’t in his room in Montague Street anymore.  
  
"You overdosed, brother dear."  
  
"You had cameras in my room."  
  
"Thankfully, I did, yes." Sherlock knew it wasn’t going to end well.   
  
"When was the last time you’ve eaten? You’ve lost too much weight, Sherlock."  
  
"And you’ve gained it, Mycroft."  
  
"Always so sympathetic. You know what happens next."  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"Well?"  
  
Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at the IV in his arm. Methadone. He muttered “Help me” in a sigh.  
  
"I shall. Under a few conditions, of course."  
  
"Which are…?"  
  
"Firstly, no more cocaine."  
  
"As expected."  
  
"Secondly, you shall not remove the cameras on your room. I worry constantly and you are a liar. We both know that."  
  
"Agreed."  
  
"And lastly, you are going to work."  
  
Sherlock snorted. “Work?  _Work_? What do you want me to do? Sell books? Who will hire me? Do you want my brains to rot?”  
  
"Au contraire, little brother. I have just the job for you. We shan’t let that briliant mind of yours be useless anymore." Mycroft handed him a folder he reluctantly opened. All of the pages were crossed with "CLASSIFIED". They were the statistics of the Homicide division of Scotland Yard.  
  
"I do not wish to be a police officer."  
  
"I am aware. Read."  
  
He continued reading. Of course Mycroft wouldn’t help anyone without helping himself as well in the process. Selfless would never define him.  
  
"Their numbers are low, I assume you want me to improve them."  
  
"I want you to do what you did with the Gloria Scott."  
  
"Why don’t you do it yourself, if you are so interested?"  
  
Mycroft grimaced. “Legwork, brother dear. You could use some. Mummy would agree.”  
  
He closed the folder. “Let me think about it.”  
  
"Thinking about it is not an option. Your two real options are the Yard or being sectioned. And I know you will not choose the second. You are 25 and you know as well as I do that you won’t reach your 30 if this continues. And for God’s sake, take off that lip ring, it’s not serious."  
  
There was nothing Sherlock hated more than Mycroft being right. He nodded.  
  
"Very well. Rest. Once you are better, I’ll tell you where to find DI Lestrade, who will be your… handler for the time being. Of course, you will report to me and to me only and I will decide what your next steps will be. I  _own_  you, Sherlock.”  
  
"Obviously", he replied, knowing it wouldn’t happen.  
  
He closed his eyes, waiting for Mycroft to disappear from the room like a bad dream. When he woke up, only the folder was beside him, as a reminder of the new life that was waiting for him.  
  
It wouldn’t be a good one, but at least, he would be alive.


	2. Two - by Luscinnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get to know our killer, and what happens inside his mind, along with Lestrade's and Sherlock's first meeting.

Two, five, thirteen, twenty-nine, fourty-one.

Three, one, four, one, five, nine, two, six, five, three, five, nine.  
Pi.  
  
“Pie!”, the voice brought him back and he looked up, the numbers just a fading whisper in the back of his mind. They would always be there. They had always been there, but they learnt that it was better to dissolve in a faint humming when he had to listen to the outsiders.   
  
“You are a bit late with the pie.”, said the voice again. He called the voice ninety-seven, because she sounded vast and mighty, round and dainty at first but pointed and mean like seven, sly like all sins combined into one digit, seven. Nine rolls, but seven his high- pitched and mean.  
  
“What is wrong with you today? Hurry up!”, ninety-seven scolded and he stopped what he was doing and got the car keys from the board next to the door.  
He counted the steps from his workplace to the board to the door to the car in the parking lot.  
  
Fifty-three, eleven, thirty-seven.  
Primes. Neat.  
  
“You will need the addresses, freak.”. Ninety- seven had followed him and shoved a piece of paper towards him. “Idiot.”, the seven hissed in a malicious manner but he couldn’t care less, he was already busy with adding house numbers together and the phone numbers marked a feast for his digithungry mind.  
  
Their whisper became louder again and he didn’t notice that ninety- seven shook her head and already returned back to her work station in the kitchen.  
He never regarded being treated like this as a hell, hell was other people, and he knew it only like this. Numbers were free from sentiment, emotions or feelings. They were clean; the purest thing he knew.

  
  
***

  
“What was the name?”, a thirty-nine year old recently promoted Detective Inspector said to the man on the other side of the landline. He needed to write the unusual name down, before he ended the call and wondered for a minute how he always managed it to get himself in those kind of things.   
  
The office still felt too new and unfamiliar, but London’s underworld didn’t allow him to settle down or get to know the colleagues of his new division any better than roughly by their names.Lestrade looked down at the note he just took. “Sherlock Holmes” - must be quite eccentric parents, he thought. Mycroft and Sherlock.   
  
He was honestly surprised when he realised it was Mycroft Holmes, who called him and his second thought was the question how he managed it to get the phonenumber of his new office that fast. They met on a crime scene a while ago, when Lestrade had still been a Detective Sergeant and only got involved into the case by chance.   
  
Back then he was more responsible for doing the legwork as Mr Holmes kindly put it. Lestrade found it quite accurate. Holmes was an interesting “guest” at the scene. As soon as it dawned on Lestrade’s superior that they had to deal with a matter of international imbroglio he let them call “the intelligence”. Or to be more precise he let Lestrade call them and that was the first time he spoke to Mr Holmes.  
  
The moment Mycroft appeared on the scene - the corpse had already been removed, most evidence tagged and in plastic and paper bags - in his oddly old-fashioned suit and with his umbrella Lestrade understood immediately that his DI meant “call the intelligence” in more than just one way. Mycroft Holmes looked by all means bored.   
As if he was watching an ant farm in a glass case and he already knew what happened and what was going to happen next and he grew tired of it the moment he lay his eyes on it and yet couldn’t be bothered to look away from the busy crawling around.   
Lestrade introduced himself and Mycroft smiled faintly as if he wanted to say “I know” but was just too reluctant to state that fact.   
  
The case got wrapped up rather quickly and Lestrade hadn’t heard anything from Mr Holmes for weeks and already forgot about their strange first encounter.   
Although the Detective Inspector wasn’t blessed with a genius mind, did he have the ability to grasp a person’s character and possible motives rather quickly. He was smart and he understood that there was more about Mycroft Holmes than the latter wanted to show, but their exchange had been too short for Lestrade to memorise Mycroft properly.   
When he heard this velvetlike dark voice at the other end of the line, he immediately recalled him and his appearance and the way he made his former superior feeling uncomfortable by analysing him very thoroughly.  
  
He spoke about a semi private favour and that it might be in the terms of the freshly promoted Detective Inspector to let his younger brother have a look at his crime scenes.   
Lestrade had been puzzled for a second and was about to ask, when Mycroft continued, sounding too patient to truely be it: “You attracted my attention when we met a while ago. I ensured that other… entities did the same. His name is Sherlock and I will send him to you when there is the proper opportunity to do so.”  
Lestrade didn’t protest, but the conversation left him with an uneasy feeling.  
  
He threw a look around. New desk, new laptop, new chair and a box with the few things he took with him to this new place. His string of thoughts got interrupted by a young woman peeking in with a pinched smile. Lestrade frowned and tried to remember her name. Dougal, Dawson.  
“Sir, we got a call.”, she said with a solemn sobriety and he nodded. “Thank you..er..” She smiled: “Donovan, Sir. Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.”

  
***

  
Where he saw the beauty of the entire design and admiration for the details, others saw nothing else but slaughter and those with the trained eyes saw nothing but work.  
Before the bustle came over the room and after he left with silent and soft footsteps there had been a moment of tranquility and the melancholy of silence after agony.  
  
…  
  
Anan Okafor didn’t die an easy death. The pain had been engraved in her delicate features and the curled toes of her feet spoke of an ordeal that Lestrade didn’t want to think about too detailed. At some point his imagination simply refused to go any further.  
  
“Sir? There is a Mr Holmes who demands to speak to you.”, said Donovan who stepped next to him completely ignoring the dead woman in front of them. “Right, thank you.”, Lestrade answered and wondered what brought Mycroft to pay him a visit.   
Here of all places.  
  
He heard the heated voices even before he reached the barrier marked by the crime scene tape.   
“This is a crime scene, gentlemen and not a weekly market. If you could lower the volume?” Lestrade was grumpy and the scruffy figure who was apparently the reason for the shouting didn’t improve his mood.  
“Lestrade?”, the pale man asked, not less grumpy than himself. “The very same.”, Lestrade answered and scrutinized his opposite; not really pleased with the entire lack of any form of polite addressing such as “Mister”, “Sir” or “Detective”.   
  
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
It was Lestrade’s turn to get pale.  
  
Good god, Mycroft’s younger brother was a bloody punk!  
  
(or goth, Lestrade wasn’t so sure in the very moment.)

 


	3. by punkypeggy

So this was the man his brother wanted him to “help”, for some reason. 

Lestrade was nothing like Sherlock thought he would be. For starters, he seemed overwhelmed. He deduced the man was recently promoted, since he hesitated when addressing his employees. His clothes suggested the payment wasn’t very good -or he wasn’t still used to it-, no wonder why the solved crimes rate was so low. They were not entirely stupid (some) but they had no incentive. Boring.

He offered his hand to the Detective for a shake, noticing a bit too late that two of his nails had black nail varnish. He would have to take care of that later on. And probably take the lip ring off, as Mycroft said, as well. Stupid prejudices. He scratched the back of his head, and moved the curls off his face.

“I assume my brother explained to you what I do.”

Lestrade’s face showed no signs of recognition. Of course he did not. Sherlock huffed, taking off his jacket and handing it to the nearest officer.

“I observe everything. From what I observe, I deduce everything. When I’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth. Long story short, I solve your case, you catch your killer, your statistics improve and the idiot of my brother leaves me alone. May I see the body, please?”


	4. by Luscinnia

Lestrade blinked. Sherlock had a way with words and it was a particular fast one. He refrained from asking “What?” in order to not reenforce the image of the not so overly bright copper like Sherlock seemed to have already gained of him.

“Er… sure.”, Lestrade nodded at the Constable who had been ordered to keep people away from the scene.  
The crime scene tape was lifted and with one step Sherlock crossed the invisible border between the chaotic life of a bored addict and inventing a new job; between past and future and it was the first step into a line of work that would prove to be his catharsis.

But not just now.  
Now was the beginning and Lestrade eyed Sherlock with a frown. If it wasn’t Mycroft Holmes sending him here and if he wasn’t Mycroft’s younger brother, Lestrade would have had a good laugh and send the bloke away in an instant or have him arrested in case he should be impertinent and he didn’t even notice the nail varnish yet and liberally ignored the lip ring.  
Maybe because he had been a little rebel, as well and wore an earring when he was a lot younger and only removed it for his career as policeman.

He led Sherlock into the house. Going by the total amount of names on the door bell nameplate it was a shared one. Four inhabitants in the whole, three african names, one british but could be from a former colony. 

“Anan Okafor, aged twenty three, student of…er…”, Lestrade had to consult the notes he took earlier. Scrawl on first glance but an experienced writing hand on the second glance, like the order of the notes.  
Chaotic for the benighted eye, but with a system on a closer look. He wasn’t an artist but at least very thorough with the sketch of the room where the murder took place, as well as with the entire surroundings. Maybe a bit too thorough; too insecure to leave unimportant things aside. Apparently really one of his first jobs since he got promoted.  
“Medical Student.”, he fell silent when they reached the room. 

Not her bedroom but the kitchen.  
It already looked liked a proper crime scene. Number tags and people taking notes and dusting black powder on surfaces, the photographers were already done and two officers of the forensics team leaned against the counter in their lightblue overalls (among them and the members of the force usually called “noddy suits”) and looked as if they were in desperate need of coffee, a cigarette or more likely sleep.

The change in Sherlock’s behaviour was remarkable and even Lestrade couldn’t fail to notice the expression in his eyes, when he absorbed every detail in an instant, how is mind started running wild even before he stepped closer to the sad remains of Anan Okafor.

Her eyes were still opened and she stared into the void, her lips slightly parted but although her mouth wasn’t frozen in a silent scream, were the signs of her suffering embossed in every inch of her tensed body. The toes curled and three nails of her hands painfully torn.

“Don’t touch anything.”, Lestrade remarked. The one rule they told him over and over again and which he passed on with a sadistic delight.  
He moved out of the way when Sherlock made efforts to step closer to the body. And it was just this what was left of her. A body; a shell.

Good Lord, was that patchouli? Lestrade wrinkled his nose when Sherlock passed by. 

***

Ninety seven. Ninety seven. Ninety seven.  
Pi.

He giggled.  
He touched her. He felt her. He killed her.  
And he took it from her.  
His fingertip glided over the smooth surface of the item he took away.  
Four leaf clover paperweight.  
One leaf for hope, one leaf for faith, one leaf for love and one leaf for luck.  
St. Patrick’s Day. March 17.  
1+7+3.  
11.  
2.  
Two times two is four. 

“What are you doing in here so long?”, ninety seven again. He sighed and put his trophy away. “Preparing the ice.”, he answered reluctantly. He hated to hear his voice, because no one ever listened to him. No one ever noticed him.  
“Hurry up, we have to cater that wedding in about three hours and we are already behind the schedule.” She vanished again and left him in the humming silence of the cold-storage room. Three. 

Their whisper got louder again. Three. 

Humans perceive white light as the mixture of the three additive primary hues: red, green, and blue.

Triplet codon system.

Three was a nice number, he thought. Not easy, always one too much. He chuckled and closed the lit of the polystyrene box that contained the ice. His ice.  
He tasted blood and it was so easy. He would taste it again and it would be even easier.

One leaf for hope, one leaf for faith, one leaf for love, one leaf for luck.

Four.


	5. by punkypeggy

Lestrade was talking, but Sherlock wasn’t really listening. He took a couple of latex gloves he had in his pocket and snapped them on, looking at the crime scene. It was a pity that it was already being modified by the people who were pretending to do the forensic work. Some of the evidence was already tagged and bagged by a man who had a terribly annoying voice.

“I should have come sooner”, he muttered to himself. The decoration of the place suggested the victim was young. A student of medicine, judging by the books and copies that were practically all over the place. The flat was shared by at least three other girls, four with the victim.

As Lestrade led him to the kitchen, he had heard him say “Medical student”. Did he seriously need to write it down? It was /evident/. Sherlock shrugged, and got on his knees in front of the corpse. 

“Her death was slow and painful, going by her expression. There are defensive wounds on her arms, the nails were ripped out perimortem. He wanted her to suffer. Multiple superficial cuts. He pushed her to the floor and sat astride her…” Sherlock crouched on top of the corpse, mimicking the aggressor. “Not a crime of passion, the face is intact. The death was caused by this stab wound, straight to the heart. Evidently right-handed.”

The man of the ridiculous voice looked at Lestrade and asked who was the boy who was contaminating his crime scene. Sherlock simply turned around and shushed him.

He examined closely the top of the girl who was lying dead on the floor, touching the fabric with his gloved hands. The corners of his lips turned upwards.

“Oh, that was terribly clever. That’s beautiful! Of course you would find no murder weapon. Oh, clever criminals! Deranged, but smart. Now that’s creativity!”


	6. by Luscinnia

Lestrade made a dismissive gesture at the unnerving voice from the background. Sherlock spoke too fast for him that there would hardly be any possibility of taking notes. He had to listen very thoroughly and the last thing he needed now was a distraction. 

“Consultant.”, he gave his colleague a roasting and watched Sherlock not sure if he felt repelled or fascinated.  
“A consultant? Since when do they look like some…muggers? And he is rudely contaminating my crime scene.”, the officer snarled and Lestrade sighed while he turned his attention from their odd new “assistant” and to the grousing officer who held his arms akimbo.

“Listen, Sergeant …er… “, Lestrade cursed his horrible memory for names, “An…derson. I’m as surprised as you are with this new development but I suggest that we both try to just deal with it. He knows what he is doing there”, Lestrade hoped he wasn’t too wrong about this, “and I think we should listen to what he…”

“Oh, that was terribly clever. That’s beautiful! Of course you would find no murder weapon. Oh, clever criminals! Deranged, but smart. Now that’s creativity!”

Anderson looked repelled and Lestrade was in desperate need of any explanation.  
“Er… he is very dedicated to his job.”   
Later Sherlock would get covered in glares of death.  
“Yeah, that is why he smells of graveyard. I bet he gets off on this.”, Anderson said and with that the fronts were cleared /and/ hardened. Not the best start.

“Care to enlighten me? What exactly was this? You said a lot of pretty, clever words but I’m more interested in what made you say them.”, Lestrade asked as soon as he managed to convince Anderson to refrain from any sort of official complaint - the worst thing that could happen to Lestrade at the moment - and drag Sherlock away from the crime scene.  
It was obvious how relieved Lestrade was that they were no longer in the presence of the dead body.   
He must have been used to those kind of sights by now; blood and the sad reminder of violence people can do to people and it couldn’t be the smell that made him feel so uneasy. 

“Your little outburst was a bit inappropriate. I’d like to demand from you to stifle those euphoric eruptions during future visits at any crime scenes.”


	7. by punkypeggy

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, grinning in disbelief. 

“You seriously have no idea of why I said what I said, do you? God, no wonder your rates are so ridiculously low.” Without a second thought, he dragged the Detective Inspector back into the kitchen and went straight to the fridge, checking the contents of the freezer.

“Not from here, evidently. Meaning he brought it. Say, Lestrade. The door was untouched, right? No forced entry?” Lestrade shook his head. “No forced entry”. “Excellent!”

The whole team was looking at him, some more annoyed than disgusted, some staring at Lestrade with a big “WHY?” metaphorically written on their faces. Anderson ignored Sherlock completely and started talking to his superior, mentioning there were no traces of the murder weapon yet.

“You’re an idiot. The murder weapon is right there.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“Of course, let me put it in simpler words so even you can understand it.” Sherlock turned around, heading back to where the body was lying on the floor. “Yes, she was stabbed, as is blatantly obvious. Yes, part of her top is covered in blood. But you didn’t OBSERVE. Did you even examine the fabric? The parts that are not bloody are still wet.”

Anderson checked his notes. “The murder weap–”

“It’s ice, IDIOT. She was stabbed with a large piece of pointy ice. Now melted over her top. Ice that was not taken from her fridge, but brought by the person who killed her. Meaning that person was carrying a cooler to keep the ice solid. If the entry was not forced, it means the victim opened the door for a person carrying a cooler and it seemed normal. Why? Think.”

Anderson looked at Lestrade. Sherlock huffed.

“It was a delivery boy, for God’s sake!”


	8. by Luscinnia

The silence was more eloquent than any sound could have been.   
And it was not from admiration for the brilliancy the scruffy Punkgothperson just showed.   
Lestrade ignored the mention of rates and the not so overly well hidden insults concerning the intellect and ability to do their jobs properly of the entire team present.   
Anderson would never forgive him that he didn’t bolster up for them as the senior officer in charge.

Something Sherlock said, triggered a memory and he tried to put a finger on it. Stabbed and wet fabric. 

Wet.  
Melted ice.

Lestrade blinked and furrowed his brow, annoyed by his scrappy memory and slowly remembering his duty towards his colleagues.  
“Boys… er… “, he returned his attention to the source of the general chagrin, “Sherlock, you are quite fast and by being as clever as you seem to be you will for sure understand that people who are not you, may need a little longer to come to the same conclusions.”  
He graced Sherlock with a long look. 

“Donovan!”, Lestrade bellowed and ordered her to check all outgoing calls from landline and Anan Okafor’s mobile phone, as well as - by all that was sacred - from any devices of her flatmates and make the very same remember as much as possible and ask them about any kind of orders they or Anan made and what for. 

“I think I have to say ‘thank you’, although you …er…” lack manners; you are impolite; you are rude; “Although you could choose your words a bit more wisely the next time.”

Interesting, that Lestrade already assumed there would be a next time without asking Sherlock first if he would agree. Maybe the Inspector and Mycroft already made a bargain with Mycroft’s younger brother in the center of their negotiations. Lestrade had been too surprised when Sherlock appeared, this wasn’t very likely then. Another possibility was that he, not particularly liked, but at least saw the efficiency and the undeniable talent for solving riddles in Sherlock.

Wet fabric. No murder weapon found.  
The thought didn’t want to leave Lestrade and he rubbed his face with both hands. A gesture Sherlock would see more often in future, whenever Lestrade was trapped in a thought process and couldn’t find the one word or picture he had been trying to remember.  
This time he found it while he made Sherlock leave the house again, before the situation escalated entirely.   
“Any plans for tonight? I may have a suggestion for you.”, Lestrade said with an almost boyish smile. 

***

Ice. Frozen water.  
He had never liked chemistry for it’s own sake, but he liked the periodic system of elements. It was structure. Logic.  
8+1  
Ice was water in a different state. He liked how a bit of cold changed it, changed the way it worked. It no longer ran away, it no longer trickled away through his fingers. It was solid when he made it into ice. He was able to make it smooth and sleek.   
And deadly.  
Like he changed the state of water did he change them. He made them cold and still.  
Shut their mouths that were opened gaps when he showed them those beautiful cluster of crystals. They saw how ugly they were, he thought and carefully closed the lid of the box again. Tonight. He had been careful. So careful but he needed it. Again.  
Tonight.

***

The office was still the impersonal place from a couple of hours ago when he left it.  
It was odd to return here with Sherlock in tow. Literally everyone around stared at them, but Lestrade soon managed it to overlook them and focus on his way.   
“Maybe you want to leave your leather jacket here?”, he asked in an attempt to be kind and wondering if it wasn’t better when Sherlock left the jacket put on.

“You can call me an idiot if I’m wrong with this…”, Lestrade said and left his office again leaving his own jacket behind. “The wet fabric remembered me of at least one or two older cases that never got solved.”, Sherlock got another look from him in the silly hope the young man wouldn’t make a remark about low rates again, “And every clue led into dead ends, but they were not treated as cold cases yet.   
Too important to simply declare them as that and store them away in the archives.”, Lestrade licked his lips.   
He was tensed up and edgy like a cadaver dog that got a first whiff of a well hidden corpse.


	9. by punkypeggy

It all happened really fast and, after a mere suggestion, Sherlock found himself following Lestrade to the station. This was the first time he wasn’t actually dragged there but invited, considering his usual lack of manners and his inability to stop the river of “non-edulcorated truths” flowing from his lips: Sherlock was blunt and honest, and those qualities weren’t usually well-appreciated, especially by police officers. He learnt in time that being polite or at least diplomatic would serve his purposes, but he didn’t feel the need to fake courtesy with Lestrade. He knew the man needed to hear a few truths who wouldn’t come from his subordinates, and those would be helpful in time. He wasn’t there to make friends after all, but to catch killers. And hell, he was going to be good at that.

Once inside the office, Sherlock confirmed his theory: Lestrade had been recently promoted. Some things were still in boxes, the rug was new, the plate with his name was shiny and untouched by dust. A change of clothes was lying on a chair, which led him to the conclusion that the man’s marriage would suffer sooner than later. Enthusiastic coffee drinker, considering the stains on the relatively new mug. His hands suggested he was a smoker, but his teeth were white. Too white. Freshly whitened, that was it. For the promotion, of course. He wanted a fresh start. Considering what Mycroft told him, the Homicide Division really needed one.

Sherlock took off his leather jacket and threw it on the floor, flopping lazily on the chair in front of Lestrade’s desk and absent-mindedly scratching the needle marks on his arms, an habit that wouldn’t leave him for quite a long time. As he looked at Lestrade’s face, he saw a glimmer in his eyes. A sniffer dog, smelling a bone.

“I don’t plan to call you an idiot unless you act like one, worry not. Just don’t jump to conclusions. It is a capital mistake to theorise without all the facts. It biases the judgment and one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. Give me data, hand me all your files. Let me read them all tonight and come back in the morning. You don’t need to stay, in fact, I advise you not to annoy me with your presence, or anyone’s, for that matter. I want coffee and I want tobacco. It helps me think.”

Before Lestrade opened his mouth, Sherlock Holmes knew exactly what the answer would be.

It would be the answer of a desperate man.


	10. by Luscinnia

Lestrade was the one-eyed among the blind and sometimes he was aware of the bite this truth meant. The painful sting of failure, of something going down a wrong way and someone put a burden on his shoulders. Someone saw more in the smart Detective Sergeant but Lestrade struggled and he would struggle for quite a while and Sherlock wasn’t improving the situation from this point of view. At least not on the first sight. 

What Sherlock lacked in politeness Lestrade owned to an amount that would let him appear a bit old-fashioned; too old- fashioned for a nearly 40 years old.  
He also knew, to whom he could speak directly and without any sort of false sentiment.  
He did notice the needle marks immediately, recognised the habit of scratching the crook of the arm. He saw so many of those; of both. The first ones more on dead bodies; the second on suspects he had to interrogate. 

“Recovering well?” he simply asked, while he casually picked the leather jacket up. “I’ll get you the folders. Wait here. Don’t wander off on your own.”  
A sentence Sherlock would hear from the Lestrade over and over again the coming years and sometimes they would both remember the first time Sherlock got exhorted with this simple and actually needless piece of advice. They never laughed about it or even graced the memory with a smile, but they could see it in each others eyes. 

****  
Weddings were painful.  
Physically and psychologically, but tonight all his senses were sharpened like knives.  
He was restless, full of energy. He was superior.  
While the guests got drunk, cheery, flirted, danced and admired the artworks of the ice sculptures he himself made for this occasion, did he watch them. Like a predator.  
He was searching for the weakest member.  
Children had never been of interest for him. After all he wasn’t a pervert.  
The weakest member of a herd were those too prim and proper, too loud, teeth too bright, too present. It took him just 11,568 seconds to get the first suspicion who it was this time and it took 2 hours, 27 minutes and 5,655 seconds to confirm it.  
From that moment on the girl in the dusky pink dress was prey. He called her ten, because she was all and nothing. 

****

Lestrade spread photographs and reports meticulously on his desk. The content of two folders got emptied; two lives taken, two deaths all narrowed down to photographs, sketches and words.  
Pressed into standard procedures and looked at with the indifferent eye of a job that someone had to do.  
Lestrade still kept the enthusiasm and the belief of being able to obtain something; anything.  
A hopelessly hopeful sniffer dog. 

“They date back to…”, he got interrupted by Sherlock. “Coffee and tobacco? Helps me think.”  
The smile was too sweet to be meant honest. Lestrade tilted his head. If those were usual circumstances he would have thrown Sherlock out. Alas! He would have called Mycroft a hopeless dreamer and Sherlock a bloody drug addicted Punk (or Goth. Lestrade was fairly sure Sherlock was actually a Goth.) but those weren’t normal circumstances. He didn’t want to be the first one to say it aloud. The word had a certain ring; a lingering sound of frustration and exhaustion; of endless hours and little findings, of public pressure, press conferences and endless questions.  
Serial killer.

“This one time. Smoking is actually not allowed inside the building.”, Lestrade pointed at a harmless looking smoke detector at the corner of the office. “Manipulated it. It won’t start to wail when you smoke in here, but do me a favour and open the window.”  
It must have been one of the first things he did when he moved to his new office. The freshly promoted Detective Inspector was still a little rebellious even if it was just out of egoistic motives.  
“Vending machines. The coffee machine in the kitchen is broken and the quality wasn’t that much better.”  
Later he would keep a cafetière on his desk (sometimes it got moved next to the printer or on top of one of the yet to be moved in file cabinets.)

“Are you sure I can leave you alone with this?”, he just had to ask. Although he wasn’t fully convinced that Sherlock was trustworthy, did he trust Mycroft and eventually Lestrade left Sherlock on his own not without placing some cash for the vending machines on top of the emptied folders. Blue. The official folders of the Metropolitan Police Service were blue.  
There was no need to hide the gesture or to cloak it with dramatic gestures.  
“See you tomorrow then.”  
And with this Sherlock was left alone in the humming quietness of an open space office during the calmer hours of the night.

****  
INITIAL CRIME REPORT  
Hornsey Police Station, Case Number: 84 - 19 - 0147  
Offence: Homicide  
Victim: Jennifer Abbey  
Location: 241c Park Ave S, kitchen  
Date: Monday Aug. 6, 2001  
Time: around 4 a.m.  
Means: wound in chest, lungs punctured  
Weapon: sharp, thin instrument (knife, screwdriver)

Details:  
Reporting officer arrived at 241c Park Ave S at 3 p.m., in response to a reported call from the sister of Jennifer Abbey, a Mrs. Laura Howland née Abbey. Mrs Howland stated that she wanted to meet vict. who didn’t appear in time.  
Phonecalls to mobile phone (contact details, see attachement 84 - 19 - 0147 - 18JA) weren’t answered. Arrived at 241c Park Ave S about 30 minutes later, entrance with spare key, found vict. lifeless on kitchen floor. CPR showed no result.  
Ambulance and police were called (see archived records of calls: 84 - 19 - 0147 - 27JA). R/o stayed at the scene and awaited arrival of requested detectives. Paramedics confirmed decease of Ms Jennifer Abbey on site (no confirmed time of death had been given).  
Case was turned over to Detective Inspector Althelney Jones of Scotland Yard. On orders of DI Jones, R/o left the site for witness questioning. 

[messy signature of a certain Constable Harry Murcher]

****

Sherlock wasn’t left alone for longer than 5 hours. A tired, but restless Lestrade appeared after a short and sleepless night and provided his newly acquired consultant with some proper coffee he must have got from a late (or early) opening coffee shop.   
The distinctive skill of every dedicated copper: the ability to procure good or at least strong coffee 24/7.


	11. by punkypeggy

By the time the Detective Inspector arrived, Sherlock was sitting on the floor, pressing his fingertips together against his lips in what resembled the stance of a monk: barefoot, stern, and very, very focused. Unlike him, the office looked the contrary of monastic: the contents of the folders Lestrade had handed him were scattered all over the opposite wall. Pictures, handwritten notes, forensic reports, and a map of London, all attached to the wall - some of them pinned, some taped on it. Chains of paperclips connecting facts. The empty paperclip box taped to Lestrade’s laptop with a note saying “Buy more. Or thread. Better thread. Yellow.” Beside it, one of the case files sported a Post-it on the first page stating “If wife wears red nail polish, arrest wife”. The rest of the folders were stacked on top of the rubbish bin, as some sort of silent suggestion. On the desk, Lestrade found the same coins he left for Sherlock to use in the vending machine, untouched. Apparently, he had already found the mental stimulation he required.

Sherlock’s body barely moved as Lestrade walked in, except for the hand he extended towards him, waiting for the cup of coffee to land on it. He took the time to drink half of the coffee before actually deciding to speak.

“Four”, he said.

“Four? Four cases?”, asked Lestrade.

Sherlock stood up and took a deep breath, evidently annoyed, and started speaking very fast, trying to produce the words at the accurate speed to match what was going on in his mind, only stopping when he had utilised every single atom of oxygen stored inside his lungs.

“Four is what ties them all together. Jennifer Abbey. Found at 4 am, fourth daughter. Anan Okafor, whose name means "fourth born child”, living in a house of four. Lenora Turner, mother of four, four rooms in her house. All of them stabbed in a similar way by a right-handed person -I’m assuming a man, given the approximate strenght necessary to pin them down-, no forced entry in any case, no murder weapon found. In every case the clothes were damp, all of them found in the kitchen, meaning it was IN FACT a delivery boy who was bringing food in boxes large and heavy enough for him to be escorted INSIDE THE HOUSE and INTO THE KITCHEN. I suggest you to start your search on catering services. Four is not a casual choice. It’s meaningful in many cultures. Tetragrammaton, the name of God. Quite pretentious to say the least, yet it fits. The Four Noble Truths in Buddhism and the Four Sights in the spiritual journey of the wise man. The Japanese superstitions about the number four, based on the phonetic resemblance with the word used for “death”. These people are marked for death, Lestrade. Though this be madness, yet there is method in it.

Oh, and you are out of Post-its.“


	12. by Luscinnia

Somehow Lestrade liked this kind of chaos. It was like a crime scene.   
What looked chaotic on first sight revealed its pattern on a second or third glance. He wasn’t able to grasp every string of thought, but he at least gained an idea about the enormous attainment Sherlock’s intellect must have delivered during those few hours he had left him alone.  
Lestrade was - by all means - gobsmacked.

When he first saw the famished ragamuffin he thought he was clever but not that smart. His behaviour on the crime scene was more disturbing than to be admired and by the time they made their way to Scotland Yard, he felt the first doubts creep into his consciousness and he was already thinking about calling Mycroft Holmes to tell him, this won’t work; that his younger brother was not stupid, but maniac, a hopeless case and that he, Lestrade, didn’t think letting him go to crime scenes would make him better or whatever it was, that Mycroft hoped to cure by this kind of experiment.

Lestrade had been left in the dark by Mycroft about Sherlock’s actual condition and how bad it had been. He could only piece things together from what he actually got told and what he was able to observe with his own eyes. 

He was smart and he was able to draw conclusions just not always the right ones. He was able to solve his cases on his own, but it took him way longer. He was thinking too straight forward. He lacked the creativity and the ability to think in more twisted ways. The talents Sherlock obtained and that should be his blessing and his curse; salvation and damnation.

“Red.”, Lestrade wryly replied concerning the yellow thread. “I have a ball of red yawn somewhere….” Same method but less effective, a good start but a poor denouement.

Handing Sherlock his coffee was a natural gesture. Lestrade was still so used to provide superior officers with coffee that he didn’t even notice it anymore. While Sherlock drank in silence, Lestrade threw a look over the piece of morbid artwork Sherlock created; followed connections with his eyes, read the notes on the post- its and finding himself confused with half of them. They didn’t make much sense to him. 

“Four.”

Sherlock’s voice brought him back to reality. “Four? Four cases?”

What followed left Lestrade in awe and worry.  
The names like rifle fire.

Jennifer Abbey. Bang. Dead. Four.  
Anan Okafor. Bang. Dead. Four.  
Lenora Turner. Bang. Dead. Four.

“Wait… wait…”, Lestrade furrowed his brow. “We are really talking about a serial killer here then? One with an obsession about the number four?”  
He wished for a second, Sherlock would say no and didn’t mean it sarcastically.  
And he wished he wouldn’t sound so dumb asking this although he knew it better. He just needed the reassurance. 

***

She was blond and sweet. Ten.  
She was hollow. Pretty little lies under pretty blond curls.  
She was the fourth of the bridesmaids. Actually a bit more shallow than what he aimed for, but it would do and his trophy would be her right shoe.

Cinderella dies at midnight.   
He hummed and looked at his watch every ten minutes. The excitement was building up inside himself. He could feel it how it started with a tingling in his feet the first time he spotted her, while he arranged the plates with the dainty morsels. 

From there it slowly crept to his legs and crotch, never left that part while it slowly found its way to his chest and heart and down his spine in repeating waves.   
He observed her while he kept up the facade of the guy from catering.  
While he played the role he had been made to have his entire life.  
The plain servant, the one who will be never noticed. Never noticed, never loved.

Ten didn’t notice him although their ways crossed half a dozen times.   
It was time, he thought when it was close to midnight. Their whispering becoming louder.   
8+1  
Ice, the cool stillness of water. 

All was timing now. He got his weapon of choice although he never regarded it as a “weapon”. It was the extension of his arm, voice and heart.   
With the javelin of frozen water, of shattered hopes and bitter word, in his gloved hand did he follow her. She was so pretty and so naive.  
And so drunk.

Two, five, eighthundredseventyseven. Four.  
Four.  
Four.  
Four.

Muffled scream, bare skin, blond curls on moist grass, blue eyes.   
Blue.  
Like sky and winter, like sadness and royalty, like magic and trueness.  
Blue.  
Like water. Like ice.

Like … he pushed the thought away while his javelin pushed into her body.  
Blue turned red and hot turned cold and huming and whispering turned into an evening serenade.

Peace, for a moment.  
Power, for a second.

And her right shoe as his trophy.

Cinderella died at midnight. 

Ten to zero. Nothing to nothing.

***

“Catering services?”, Lestrade understood very well, it was just a bad habit to repeat what he had been told as a question, when his mind was already running wild with the next steps to be taken.  
He grabbed the handpiece of the landline telephone to make a few calls and make a lot of people grumpy because he rang them at this ungodly hour.

A lead. Thanks to Sherlock they finally had their lead and he was not willing to let this trace cool down again.

“Er… Detective Inspector Lestrade here. Good morning to you, too. Listen, I need some information from you concerning the following cases…”


	13. by punkypeggy

At least the man wasn’t trying to contradict him. Lestrade was taking Sherlock’s words as gospel, as he always wanted it to be. But Sherlock knew this wasn’t because of a personal liking, he had never been liked and he wasn’t expecting it either. No, the forcefulness of the evidence was uncanny and indiscutible. Yes, they had a serial killer. And yes, he was likely to attack again soon, as the cooling period between cases seemed to shorten with no definite pattern.

For the first time in years, Sherlock Holmes actually felt useful. The last ten years were nothing but a blur, but now he didn’t need the rush of the cocaine to keep his mind working, cogs turning faster and faster with terrible precision. This is what he lived for. This was what he needed. This and nothing else. For a second, the idea of using again seemed absurd. It wasn’t comparable. Yet, deep down, he knew that monster was only hiding, crouching in a dark corner, just waiting for the right moment to pounce and claw and tear apart.

As the Detective Inspector made his call, Sherlock picked up his jacket which was on Lestrade’s chair and put it on. After finishing his cup of coffee, he took the last Post-it and wrote his mobile’s number on it with a pen.

"Call me if you need me. I’m staying in a room at Montague Street. I need to take a shower.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned around, waved, and disappeared through the door, in front of the curious eyes of the first officers who just arrived.


	14. by Luscinnia

Lestrade’s voice followed Sherlock on his way outside. He had finished his calls and was about to give the first orders to some of the officers. 

He took Sherlock’s words as gospel, yes.  
He was also desperate and had enough confidence in his own judgement to put trust in Sherlock, the junkie, the Goth and the rising bright star on a firmament that had been too dark for the Metropolitan Police Service for far too long.  
Least they needed was a serial killer on the run and no leads. He would have to attend a press conference.

No, he would have to make the statements. Lestrade, not fond of press conference, pushed the thought away. There were more pressing matters to look at.   
By the time the call reached them they had been able to narrow the catering companies down to three. 

***

Rigor mortis.  
What a gentle name for something so cold.  
2 degree by the first hour. Every further hour another degree until she would be as cold as the grass her body lay on and just three hours and her body would be stiff. 

He lost interest in her, as soon as the gaze broke; as soon as life left her. Whatever it was, whatever thing it was that he tore away; ripped it out, it was gone.  
He always wanted to devour their souls, eat them, gobble it down and taste their pureness or wickedness. Erase what mischief they caused by words, what wounds their sweet red painted lips may have opened in people like him, he was the one to let it vanish from this planet.

He was the avenger of outlaws and outsiders. Banned into invisibility, smiled and laughed at. Now he was the one who could laugh.  
A rasping noise left his throat. Time to go back. Time to disappear again under the opened eyes of /them/. If it would only be a magic trick. But it was more bitter. It was reality. 

“Hey, Sue… didya see wha Larry did ta… Su?”  
She was wondering why her friend lay on the ground. It was not cold but the latenight air put a delicate layer of clamminess over all surfaces exposed to it.  
She stumbled closer, assuming her friend was either helplessly drunk or about to make a hilarious joke.

“Ye missed to catch the bridal bouquet.” She giggled and stepped closer. “Sue…?”  
Even in her drunk state did she understand that something was wrong; that something happened and she was still for a second, looking down at the blonde hair on the ground, at the bright blue eyes staring into the black night sky. Down at the dress and the layer of clamminess as if it had rained. 

***

Lestrade had a tiny moment to get some breath back. The morning had been hectic and he was not done with the odd appearancce of Sherlock Holmes yet, when the door to his office got pulled open by an excited Sally Donovan.

“Sir, there had been a call just a minute ago. Another one.”  
“The icicle one?”

Sally nodded and Lestrade got to his feet in record time and followed her to the car park, giving out orders on the way and first instructions. “Right, tell me the details as far as you got them.”, he said to Donovan while he started the engine of the car.  
The car ride took them less than 7 minutes and bestowed them with the eternal hatred of at least twenty other traffic participants. 

***

The faces were pale and he was nervous. The whispering in his head too loud, too unnerving. They were hectic, bellowing and blurting various numbers at him. Primus, Secundus.  
Pi.

Something was about to go horribly wrong. He looked around, saw nothing more but white nameless dots that were supposed to be faces. They built a wall and when he thought they were going to smash him while the voices in his head screamed at him and shouted all those numbers from zero to eternity, some new faces appeared.

Six and two and fourty-five and ninehundredtwentyeight.   
He observed them as they were looking around, scanning the room with their eyes.

“Everyone remain inside this room, please.”  
“It won’t take long.”  
“Please stay calm.”

Just words. The beginning of the end. 

***

Lestrade was calm. He had already been prepared by Donovan on their way. They had three photographers with them. Ice had the habit to melt and even if the victim’s body was getting colder and colder with every passing hour did the process already begin.  
This was neat, he thought. An invisible weapon.  
Sherlock was right. Until this moment had he been skeptic. Ice as murder weapon. Quite eccentric. But now he was able to cop a look at it himself.   
There was nothing he could do for her anymore and but something he could at least start to do now to give her peace.

No one left the area and that meant the culprit was still here and if Sherlock was right with this point, as well, they could narrow it down to the members of the catering service.

Four people.

How ironic.

***

He could hear a crack and he knew it was over. He went through all possible scenarios. From fleeing to taking hostages. From firing a gun randomly at the guests to suicide but in the end he would be a coward. Weak, like he always had been, like he would always be. 

“My name is Isaac Euler and I killed … people.” For the first time in his life he lost count and with the number slipping his mind, the whispering stopped and never before did he feel so left behind, so alone.  
He betrayed them by forgetting and this was their revenge.  
“I took…”, he fell silent and the absence of those voices was ringing in his ears. He grew aware of the staring eyes, the faces no longer coloured empty patches, but individuals. 

“MY NAME IS ISAAC EULER!” And for once he was noticed; he was seen. The invisibility casted off like dead skin, removed and shred.   
“And you can see me.”   
It would remain his last sentence until he would state a whole and detailed confession. 

Lestrade left it to Donovan to guide Mr Isaac Euler to the waiting police car. Handcuffs were not considered necessary for he was tame as a lamb. The Detective Inspector stated the Miranda warnings; still wondering and still puzzled how this came to an end - a possible end - so quickly.

“I arrest you under the suspicion of …”

There was still a lot to do. Witnesses to be questioned, sketches to be drawn and for Lestrade himself the one phonecall to make that had been expected for a while, as he was aware of and he would make a visit. 

***

 

“Er…Detective Inspector Lestrade here.”  
“Yes.”  
“I just wanted to inform you…”  
“Yes”  
Lestrade grew slightly impatient: “I-just-wanted-to-inform-you that I will let him have other cases. He was really amazing.” And then he got annoyed with himself for this obvious statement of admiration for a Goth with a lip ring, messy hair and an attitude.  
“I thought so.” Came the response in a bored intonation, nearly uninterested in the matter.  
“Well. Good for you.” Lestrade was miffed.  
There was a small pause before Mycroft Holmes said: “Thank you for letting me know and I dearly hope you won’t regret your decision.”  
Lestrade’s “I’m sure I won’t.” was already spoken at the dial tone.

“Holmes.” Lestrade dryly remarked to himself as if the word alone stood for any kind of discourteous behaviour.

***

It was early when he knocked at the door of the room at Montague Street.   
He couldn’t be bothered if it was acceptable for Sherlock to welcome a visitor in those early hours of the morning.  
Lestrade found Sherlock awake, fully dressed and without the lip ring, much to his surprise. Again and as it by now was already a habit he didn’t bother with the usual phrases.   
“Did you sleep at all?”, he wondered frowning and took a curious look around the room.  
The view was as disturbing as fascinating. One of the walls was plastered with pictures and some of them were very well known to Lestrade.

Richard Trenton Chase, Jeffrey Dahmer, Andrei Chikatilo, Joachim Kroll, John Haigh, Ted Bundy, Maria Jager, Aileen Wuornos…   
…and ever present the yellow thread.  
It resembled a grotesque piece of art and yet made perfectly sense.

“Er… ,” Lestrade blinked and looked at Sherlock, “I’m not jealous of you and neither are my colleagues at Scotland Yard. Actually I’m quite proud of you for you solved this case in record time and when you come down tomorrow to have a look at the next one, there may not be a large group of men, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who’d like to shake you by the hand, but there is surely this one officer who is grateful for your help and advice. 

Will you come?”


	15. by punkypeggy

“Euler? Like the mathematician? How appropriate.”

Lestrade had appeared knocking at his door at 7 AM, when he was drinking the fifth coffee of the “night”. An experiment on bioluminiscence had kept him awake until then, yet when the Detective Inspector asked him if he slept, he said he did. The man looked worried. He didn’t need a second Mycroft. God knew one was more than enough.

They chatted for a brief moment, during which Lestrade informed him about Euler’s capture -of course he had been right about EVERYTHING- and certain aspects of the murderer’s personal life he couldn’t care less about. The other man seemed fascinated with the way he had solved the case. In normal circumstances it was to be expected, yet in his experience, words of gratitude were rarely spoken. Probably because the most brilliant deductions were often accompanied by the most intrincate insults.

But there was something more. Lestrade wasn’t there just to report and they both knew it. After a short silence, the man would make him an offer he wouldn’t be able to refuse. He wouldn’t, firstly, because that was part of the agreement he had with his brother (and that would be the official story for Mycroft). And he wouldn’t, most of all, because he had noticed that was what he was in this world for. For once, Sherlock Holmes had a purpose.

“Will you come?”, Lestrade finally asked.

“If you need to ask that question, you are an idiot.”

 

***

 

Sherlock’s mobile rang.

“I solved it. I assume you already know.”

“Yes.”

“What do you want, then?”

“Can’t a man check on his little brother?”

“A man can. You, on the other hand…”

“You will continue to work with him, Sherlock.”

“I know. You own me, don’t you?”

“Good. Report to me after the next. Make your brother proud.”

Mycroft grimaced as he noticed he was talking to the busy signal.

In his room in Montague Street, Sherlock smiled as he poured a cup of coffee for himself and sat in front of the microscope.

 

*THE END*


End file.
